For a moment the two women were immovable, facing each other, straining across some divide too deep, too impenetrable to cross. Mora reached out her hands and the expression on her face was one of despair. Help me. Had she really said those words, or had Abi imagined them? ‘Mora! Wait!’ Abi called out, but slowly Mora was beginning to fade before her eyes. ‘No!’ Abi stood up. ‘Wait. Don’t go. We can do this!’ Throwing herself out of the chair she reached out, her hands clawing at the space where Mora had been standing. There was nothing there but a slight frisson of cold in the air.

Abi stood still. She was trembling, she realised suddenly. She turned round slowly, studying the church, searching every corner as though expecting Mora to appear behind her, in the aisle, or near the old stone font. There was no-one there. The silence was absolute. It was some time before she slowly realised that she was becoming aware of sounds around her again. The moan of the wind outside; a branch tapping on a window, a rustle from a flower arrangement on a window sill. She swung round, in time to see a small mouse poking through the leaves, looking for berries and ears of corn in the autumnal arrangement. She smiled. Mora had gone. Reality had reasserted itself. Time was moving smoothly forward again.

She had to scrabble through the leaf mould to find the small hidden hollow at the base of the ancient oak tree. The Serpent Stone was there where she had left it, tucked at the back in the darkness. She pulled it out, wrapped in its cotton bag. The material was damp and stained from the hiding place and the crystal was cold. She knelt there on the damp grass staring down at it, fully conscious for the first time of the generations of women who must have held it as she did and who, maybe, had seen the same things she had seen and felt the same emotions and she found she was near to tears.

Then the story came back.

Mora had stirred the fire in the centre of the woodcutter’s hut into life. She piled on twigs and small logs from the pile near the door and set the iron pot of water from the spring on the trivet over the flame. Then she glanced across at Yeshua. He had folded back the man’s blankets and was running his hands gently over the twisted leg. ‘How is he?’

‘Feverish. Delirious. He is drifting in and out of consciousness and he doesn’t know we’re here, which is as well. I will set the leg quickly while he is asleep.’ He glanced up. ‘Where is the man’s daughter? She should be here!’

Mora shrugged. ‘She went to fetch help. When we didn’t come perhaps she went out again.’

She had heard the irritation in his voice, seen once again the flash of anger. She smiled quietly to herself. The first thing he had done when they entered the hut was to go out again to fetch the thirsty man some water. His anger when he had found the broken cup had been formidable. She had watched him control it firmly as gently he raised Sean’s head and allowed him to sip from one of the bowls they carried in their pack.

She searched through the pouches of herbs in her bundle, concentrating on the infusion she would make when the water had heated. Behind her she heard the man groan, the grating of bones as Yeshua manipulated the leg, the gentle, reassuring words he spoke as he cleaned the wound and bound the leg straight. She glanced round. Yeshua was sitting beside the man now, his eyes closed, his hands resting on the man’s forehead in blessing. She smiled. He wouldn’t need her infusion now. He probably wouldn’t even need a bandage. Yeshua’s blessing was enough.

It was as they sat together in a silence broken only by the cracking of twigs as the fire licked higher, that she became aware that all was not well outside. She tensed, withdrawing her concentration from the fire, letting her attention expand, listening beyond the licking flames. Someone was out there. Someone hiding. She heard the urgent warning alarm of a wren, then the sharp pinking note of a chaffinch. She glanced across at Yeshua. His eyes were closed. He was praying. Silently she rose to her feet and went over to the doorway and peered out. The area in front of the little house was a clearing in the middle of which was a ring of blackened stones, with ash lying heaped in the centre. Obviously the woodman preferred to do his cooking outside. Mora glanced round. She and Yeshua had left their walking staffs leaning against the side of the house as they ducked inside. From here she couldn’t reach them without going out. The birds were silent now, waiting. Someone was out there. Not the woodsman’s daughter. She would have come in at once and made herself known. No, this was danger. She could feel the skin on the back of her neck prickling. There was a movement behind her and she looked round hastily, putting her finger to her lips. Yeshua came over and stood behind her. ‘There is someone out there,’ she whispered. ‘Someone who means us harm.’

He frowned. Behind them the sick man stirred and groaned, his head moving from side to side in his dream. Mora glanced at Yeshua. ‘What do we do?’

He moved a couple of paces back into the hut and groped around in the wood pile. Seconds later he was back beside her, a sturdy makeshift club in his hand. ‘You wait with him. I’ll go and see,’ he whispered.

‘No!’ She caught at his sleeve. ‘It is you he wants.’

He looked at her, his brown eyes on hers. ‘You know this?’

She nodded. ‘A flash. A knowing. Don’t go out there.’

‘I have to go out there at some point, Mora,’ he said quietly. ‘Now is as good a time as any.’

Ducking out of the doorway he stood up, hefting the piece of wood in his hand. There was another moment’s silence, then a rustling from the bushes nearby. The branches parted and Flavius straightened up as he emerged into view. He was holding a drawn sword. ‘So, we meet at last.’ He took two paces towards Yeshua and stopped. ‘Our Jewish king, dressed like a peasant and covered in ash!’ He laughed grimly. Behind them Mora hid in the doorway out of sight, looking round desperately for a weapon. She glanced at the wood pile, then at the woodcutter behind the fire. He was sitting up, watching her. In the light of the flames she saw his face. He was clear-eyed and he gestured towards his pack which was lying in the darkness beyond the reach of the flames. She crept back towards him and taking hold of it pulled it towards the light. He leaned across and opened it. Inside there was a sharp bronze knife. He pulled it out and handed it to her. With a quick gesture he ran his finger across his own throat and then pointed to the doorway. Gripping the handle tightly she ran back and looked out again. Yeshua hadn’t moved. Flavius was standing about six paces from him, the short Roman sword held out in front of him. He was enjoying the moment. She could see it in his eyes. A cat with a mouse.

‘The time hasn’t come, my friend,’ Yeshua said quietly. His attention was fixed on Flavius. ‘My end has been foreseen by the prophets, and it is not now. Not here.’ His anger had gone to be replaced by calm confidence.

Flavius smiled. ‘Prophets can be wrong.’ He transferred the sword lightly from his right hand to his left and then back again. ‘Have you done your work with the sick man?’

Yeshua nodded. ‘He is healed.’

‘Pity. Then I will have to kill him as well. We want no witnesses here. It suits my purposes that you quietly disappear in the wilds of Britannia. History and your prophets will have to acknowledge that this time they got it wrong. There will be no word that you ever came to this country.’ His glance shifted past Yeshua for a moment, towards the hut. ‘Is Mora there too? It is sad but she also will have to die -’

‘No!’ There was an explosion of movement behind Flavius as Romanus hurled himself out of the bushes. ‘You can’t kill Mora. I won’t let you.’

Mora stepped outside, the knife in her hand. ‘And nor will I, Romanus!’ That one moment of distraction was all it needed.

Yeshua stepped forward, his club upraised and struck the sword from Flavius’s hand. ‘Enough!’ he shouted. ‘You are not going to interfere with my destiny or with the destiny of these innocent people.’ His face was white with anger again, his careful calm gone. ‘You are an evil man with no conscience and no shame! I will not let you hurt anyone here.’ His eyes narrowed with the fury that had gripped him.

Flavius staggered back, cradling his broken hand against his stomach. It was Romanus who picked up his sword. The boy’s face was white. ‘You were going to kill Mora.’ It seemed to be the only thing that had registered.

Flavius looked down at him with an expression of complete contempt. He snatched his sword from the boy’s hand, then he turned and began to walk away. Several paces on he paused and looked back. ‘I will do my duty to my Emperor,’ he called. ‘This may not after all be the time or place, but do not think you will escape me.’

Seconds later they heard the thud of hoofbeats on the ground, rapidly receding into the distance. They looked at each other.

‘Why?’ Mora gasped. ‘Why did he try to kill you? I don’t understand!’ She was trembling violently. The knife had fallen from her hand.

‘I didn’t realise what he was going to do,’ Romanus said miserably. ‘At least, he told me, but I didn’t believe it.’ The boy’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He said you were a traitor. Then he said you were a king.’ He brushed the tears away with the back of his hand. He was looking at Yeshua with curiosity and something like awe.

‘A king? I thought you told me your father was a carpenter and a mason and an architect!’ Mora put in. Her face was white. She turned to Romanus, Yeshua’s antecedents forgotten in the wave of indignation that swept over her. ‘You told him we would be here and you brought him here. You betrayed us. Why?’